


Five Gifts Anders Didn't Want To Accept, And One He Gladly Did

by confusedkayt



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age II
Genre: And a straight recitation of the events would be, And yet it is from Anders' POV, Blue Male Mage Hawke, Canon Compliant, Gifts, M/M, So yeah, With those ineradicable purple tendencies, five things, this was meant to be fluffy, warning: anxiety attacks
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-01
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-09-03 12:19:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8713690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/confusedkayt/pseuds/confusedkayt
Summary: Hawke's a giver.  His gifts?  Well, the intentions are good, even if they are badly chosen, badly made, badly delivered, or some awful combination of all three.What it says on the tin, in the classic five times and one time format, spanning the length of Dragon Age II.





	1. A Box Of Odds And Ends

**Author's Note:**

  * For [HollowLand](https://archiveofourown.org/users/HollowLand/gifts).



“Healer! Anders!” Mirana’s angry, that much is clear. Not afraid, though. Even so, it’s an effort to choke back the surge within him, the tingle at his fingertips. Not now. It’ll upset the patients. Already has, if the round-eyed look the elderly man beneath his hands gives him is anything to go by. “Wait, please,” he murmurs, calm as he can. Like as not the man will flee before he returns and reap an infection in that leg for his troubles.

He crosses the crowded clinic floor quick as he can, which is not particularly quick in the end. It’s a bad day, a crowded day, the noises and smells of suffering doing nobody any good. And there’s a thief on his hands, like as not. He knows that tone. Mirana’s still new enough to be frustrated by it. She’ll learn. Of course people will try to take what they can, here where it would be freely given. How can they do otherwise, when kindness has been as scarce as anything else needed to sustain life? 

Mirana’s prisoner has a familiar face, for all that cocksure grin has a distinctly sheepish tinge to it. Well. It seems he has the capacity to be disappointed after all. “Hawke?”

“You know this one?” Mirana prods Hawke’s side, none too gently. “Found him lurking around the cellars.”

“I know him,” and Maker, he sounds tired. He _feels_ tired. He would have thought to call Hawke friend.

Hawke reaches back to scratch at his neck. “Don’t suppose you’d believe I was in the neighborhood?”

The back of his neck prickles. Anders half-turns, and sure enough, old Messere Wrenchwright is stirring ominously. “Look to the leg injury in cot seventeen, will you, Mirana?” She gives him a flat look and treats Hawke to another stab of her bony fingers, but she goes.

He turns back to his unlikely thief, and Hawke very nearly shuffles his feet. Good. “I thought I’d bring some things by, is all,” and he’s still smiling. The nerve of him. “And, well, you looked busy so I thought, I’ll just leave them in the storeroom, no need to cause a disturbance.” He probably thinks that smirk is charming. “So much for that.”

Anders scrapes his eyes up and down. No obvious bulges, no suspicious pouches at his belt. Whatever he’s lifted, it isn’t much. He’d been kind, so kind, that night with Karl. Anders can spare him the lecture, at least, even if he hasn’t got the energy for false niceties with the weight of the day and this unexpected disappointment heavy in his gut.

The silence stretches. Hawke’s smile strains, a little. “Maybe I’d better…” He waves vaguely at the door.

“You’d better,” Anders confirms, and then startles when the man has the nerve to clap him on the shoulder on the way out.

There’s so much work to do, so much need, that he can keep the bitter weight of their interaction out of his mind for the rest of the afternoon. Finally it’s as quiet as it’s going to get. Better to get it over with, down to the cellars, see how bad the damage is.

He counts the potions, twice, just to be sure. The numbers add up. He's about to go in for a third when his boot snags on a box, tucked just beside the elfroot stores, where it has no business being. 

The box itself has clearly seen better days, suspicious stains better not investigated closely. Anders gives it a kick and nothing moves. Small mercies. Still, he’s a little leery of digging around in it. The rats are industrious and feisty this close to the sewers. Strange - there’s trousers, many pairs. They’ve seen better days, too, but the obvious tears in them have been skillfully mended. His fingers catch on something round toward the bottom. Whatever it is, it’s been carefully wrapped. He unwinds the trousers and - it can’t be. Lyrium, five flasks. There are more suspicious lumps in the very bottom of the box. He shakes out the last pair of trousers and - carrots, only just rubbery, six, no, seven of them, and a couple of onions. Just his luck - a greasy scrap of parchment shoved in the bottom of the box slices into a finger. There’s just enough life left in his candle to look at the thing. A letter, it seems, the words carefully crossed out. Anders flips the paper and there’s a message on the other side, the spiky handwriting nearly unreadable. “Wicked Grace, Hanged Man, tomorrow, 10th bell. Come if you have the time. Hawke.”

Hawke. The laugh that wrenches out of him is not a pleasant one. Andraste’s ample ass, he’d been a knob. Oh, Hawke had a hand in it, too, all guilty faces and sneaking about. Although that’s his doing, too, isn’t it - he’d never have accepted this and Hawke knows it, too. This is too much. For all Hawke is doing all right for himself, he’s got a whole family up in Lowtown and precious little coin that he clearly gets the hard way. The trousers, sure - better patched than none at all, and Maker knows some of his patients could use a new warm pair. But this much lyrium, and real vegetables to boot…

Well. It’s not so strange, is it, that a recent refugee would spare a thought for his less able fellows? There’s desperation here, but kindness, breathtaking kindness, too. He sees it every day. It always warms him - people who have so little who help in the small ways they can. The rush of warmth that runs through him now, eroding the fatigue of the day, it’s no different.

Anders tucks the note into a pocket. Cards, eh? Been a good long while, but he owes Hawke some company at the very least, after the reception he gave him today. It’s a waste of time, frivolous, but it’s not right to turn a helping hand away so roughly.


	2. A Whittled Kitten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> During the Deep Roads expedition, presuming Hawke took Carver and Anders

There’s no way to get clean in the thrice-blasted Deep Roads. Can’t trust the standing water, even if he was inclined to fight through iridescent scum thicker even than the sludge that comes out of the pumps in Darktown half the time, and no one’s carrying enough water to waste on a proper scrub, not when he and Hawke together can barely conjure enough to meet drinking needs. He’s reduced to halfheartedly wetting his hair when the itch is too much to be borne.

He passes Carver, ludicrously oversized sword thumping away like the air has personally wronged him. He thinks Anders has, if that sour look is anything to go by. Ugh. Joy of joys - the man will be even more rank, although at this point it’s academic. No matter how pointed the distance Carver places between his bedroll and Hawke’s, the odor carries, somehow distinct even over and above the general funk of unwashed dwarf. Just another gift from this forsaken place to round out the set. The constant awareness of closed space, thick looming slabs rock and nowhere worth running to, the constant skitter-screech of Darkspawn in his head, loud enough at night and Justice can’t or won’t block it when they’re down here. Lovely.

And there’s the man himself, sitting splayed down in the dirt with a boulder at his back, face scrunched up the way it does when he really concentrates on something and thinks no one’s watching, fingers glowing faintly around some small object. “Trying to put Bodahn’s boy out of business?” he says and Hawke yelps and drops the thing. Anders can’t help but snicker at him, just a little, and earns himself a wry little grin.

Hawke scoops whatever it is up and gives it a critical look. “We’ll call that added character,” he says, and flips the thing over to Anders. “Unless, of course, Pouncey Cat had a scar all down his face, in which case we’ll call it artistic accuracy.”

“Pouncey Cat?” and sure enough, now that he looks at the thing, it’s a rough-hewn little cat figurine with lumpy little legs and jaunty ears.

“This expedition is feline-friendly, unlike your last trip down here, I gather,” and Hawke wears that carefully open look he gets when he’s trying to draw someone out. Much better to look at the little wooden thing, take one breath, two. His fingers itch, the urge to bury them in his pauldrons sudden and sharp and no substitute for Ser Pounce-a-lot’s warm fur and little heaving breaths. His living warmth and contrary quirks had been the only thing kept Anders sane down here, once upon a time, and the lack is damn near unbearable for a moment. The altogether different brand of warmth washing over him - Hawke, Hawke remembering the story of his little demonspawn cat, maybe he pays as much mind to Anders as Anders does to him as though that is remotely possible - is no better, torture in its own way.

Deflect, deflect, deflect. “How did you do it?” he tries, waving the wooden cat, and his tone is light enough, thank the Maker for small mercies.

Hawke shrugs. “Just a bit of whittling,” and he passes his hand over another bit of wood close to hand, peeling away a little curl of it. He still his fidgeting, just for a moment. “Father always had us at it. Taught precision, he said, but I think he was just trying to keep us out of mischief.”

The urge to clasp one of Hawke’s slightly slumped shoulders is as strong as it is unwise. “Well, that was a lost cause.”

Hawke’s chuckle is just a little flat. “Thought he picked it up in the Circle, actually,” and there’s that I’m-listening face again.

“Idle use of magic was not encouraged,” and that was harsher than he'd meant to be.

“I would’ve thought that’s exactly why you’d do it,” and he swallows down a lecture on the stress and the fear, the constant threats of punishment and ever-present calculation, battles he could afford to pick and ones that weren’t worth the stripes and the time in isolation, wrongwrongwrongwrong _wrong_ because Hawke knows, he knows, and the half-haunted look he gets when he talks about his life before, running and hiding and the profound, stupid, waste and loss of it… Unjust, all of it.

The hand wrapped around his own is a shock. “Careful,” Hawke murmurs, and squeezes Anders’ hand, crushed tight around the wooden cat. “You’ll break my masterpiece and then where will we be?”

Exactly where they are now, days from the surface in the bloody Deep Roads, and this closeness, these feelings, they’re as bad for him as everything else down here. He’d like to make a quip, something, diffuse that terrible warm understanding written all over Hawke’s face in some way but he doesn’t trust his tongue just now. “Thank you for this,” he manages, and drops his eyes. “Think I’ll call it an early night.”

“Sleep well,” Hawke says, and drops his hand. Anders misses it immediately, because he’s a fool. Nothing good happens in the bloody Deep Roads. _Nothing._


	3. Nameday Sweets

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS: Anders experiences another anxiety attack in this chapter. I'd also exercise caution if a close look at what it might feel like to be less than alone in your own head might cause you discomfort to read. Awkward almost-discussions of class change.

“Well, that’s not a good face.” Hawke’s smile is rapidly sliding from excited to panicked-polite. Blight take him, Anders is a heel, but…

“It’s too much,” and he sounds a little choked, doesn’t he, but it _is,_ much too much - a small fortune in Orlesian chocolates, the box too big to be lifted with just one hand and he knows he’s eyeing it like it’s going to bite but the sight of it is absurd here in his filthy, dark clinic, here where he can’t drum up the resources to help with the most basic necessities and…

Hawke’s hand, warm on his shoulder. His eyes are apologetic. Anders shoots a wild glance at Varric and Isabela but they’re carefully not listening, angled ever-so-slightly away and laughing over the last of the brandy. He suppresses the urge to laugh - it’ll come out hysterical, and that’s no way to thank them for coming here to celebrate his nameday. A kindness, well-meant, even if four’s hardly a party and Isabela’s written something crude on the streamers. It’s noisy in his head, in his gut, warm feelings warring with the clear truth that this is frivolous and decadent and damn unjustifiable and maybe a joke at his expense or at best social charity. No. No, that’s unfair. They’re friends to him, all of them, good as they know how to be.

His ears are ringing but Hawke’s talking, a stream of words steady as his hand on Anders’ shoulder and he focuses in on that until he’s calm enough to hear what he’s saying. “…wanted to know how Bethy managed to bring in so much of the harvest, such a good worker for such a little girl. Father always taught us, make ‘em like you and they’ll look the other way. Bethy never was much of a liar and, well, Carver.” A soft snort. “So it was up to me to do the fast talking. ‘Father says hard work’s a service to the Maker,’” and Hawke’s halla-eyes are outrageous, his voice piped mockingly high, “and there I am, the fourteen-year-old little shit, droning on about the virtue of toil now for abundance later against the winter and to help the less fortunate and this and that. Would you believe it, that Templar came back around the farm the next day with a sweet for each of us.” Andraste’s hairy asscrack, that almost sets Anders off again, reflexive fear and anger and Hawke’s smile gets nervous, his fingers tighter on Anders’ shoulder. “I thought Bethy’s eyes would pop out of her head when she tasted it, and thank the Maker it kept Carver’s mouth occupied for once. And there was Mother, calm as you please serving up tea and thanking the man for his charity while he went on about the virtue of work.” A soft laugh, just a touch bitter. “Not as nice as a story as I remember, come to think of it.”

“Not really, no,” he manages, and if his smile is a little shaky, well, it’s there.

Hawk wrinkles his nose and Anders’ smile feels a little less false for it. “We always had enough, more or less, but something like that wasn’t really in the cards for a bunch of farmers. I’ll never forget the taste of it.” Hawke’s closed eyes, the way the remembered pleasure washes over his face - something far too complicated is going on in Anders’ belly and he wants to lean forward and lean away all at once.

Hawke smiles, sheepish, and the moment breaks. “I just thought… wouldn’t it be nice, a memory like that for some of the Darktown kids. Without, you know, the terror and Templar-y bits.”

Anders can feel himself smile, really smile, probably dopey if Hawke’s answering smirk is any guide. “It’s a… kind impulse,” he says and means it.

The smirk goes a little wicked. “I also thought there was an off-chance you’d actually eat one if you had enough to share. You’re appallingly charitable.”

And that’s enough to quash the warm feeling. It’s not… comfortable, the surge of righteousness that doesn’t feel entirely native, but he gamely holds his smile all the same. “Free clinics aren’t actually free, you know.”

“Oh I know,” and he does, Hawke’s a _good man_ , think of all the lyrium and potions and mysterious donations. “You _can_ have a little something for yourself from time to time, is all.”

It’s exhausting, sometimes, constant conflicts and negotiations inside himself and there’s an uncomfortable upswell -it’s worth it, of course, of course it is. But good food and good company aren’t inherently selfish. He can do more, do better, with support than without.

“Thank you,” and that much is easy. It is no justice to ignore kindness of any sort.

Hawke lets his hand drop, rolls his shoulders. He isn’t looking directly at Anders when he says, “I’m sorry,” and that wasn’t the expected response.

Anders half-turns to face him properly and Hawke’s got that appallingly open look he gets sometimes. Anders makes an encouraging noise and waits for a moment, two.

“It’s… strange,” and for a moment Anders isn’t sure he’ll go on. “The house, all of it, it’s… changed things.” And the serious face is gone, a mask of dashing smirk covering it over. “You think it would be easier to get used to the good life. Champagne problems, I know.”

The familiar litany of Hawke’s many good deeds ticks along in the back of his head. Hawke’s a good man. He is. He _is_. “You do more than you know.”

Hawke nudges him with an elbow, just for a moment, then turns back to the makeshift card table and their friends. “Deal me in, Varric.” Isabela cheers.

“Me too,” and he’ll rejoin his friends. He will. There are no patients now, they’ll know to find him if there’s need, and it would be rude to refuse their kindness.


	4. House Clothes

His limbs are heavy and his steps are slow. It feels odd - awkward and ungrateful, so ungrateful, to count any downsides at all, and especially one like this, when so many people in this city fester away in the lower reaches. It is a dear privilege to bed down in a place that is affected by the rain. Still, his coat is better suited to keeping out the cold than the damp. At least the water will stop the stains from setting, though that’s another price, isn’t it - there is always someone too stupid, too desperate to let a man walking alone pass by, no matter how well-fed and well-armed he is. It’s a cruel irony - his treks to the clinic, infrequent as they are in these tense times, often end with as many lives lost in transit as saved in the sickbed. That’s Kirkwall for you - endless effort and precious little to show for it. Every change is for the worse.

Well. Not _every_ change. It still feels unreal. After all this time, that he spends his nights in Hawke’s home, in Hawke’s bed…

First, though, he must go through Hawke’s door. It feels… wrong, now, in a way it hadn’t before, to just walk right in. Maker knows everyone else does it - friends and foes and supplicants stream in and out of the foyer at all hours. Still, he has the urge to knock. Something. Of course, that only means disturbing one of the servants - _servants!_ \- or worse, the lady of the house. Not worth it, just to settle his vague sense that he’s outworn his enthusiastic, loudly reiterated welcome.

A long walk to end a long day. He’d like nothing better than to slip inside silently, and for once it seems like he might get his wish. The foyer is empty as it ever gets, save the dog drooling by the fire. Usually they coexist in a state of benign neglect, but today Hannibal heaves himself up off the floor and shoves his massive head under Anders’ hand. “Cooped up all day?” he asks, not unsympathetically. It’s bad weather for dog business.

Hannibal barks his agreement, soaking up the attention for a brief moment before circling behind him and _shoving_. It nearly sends Anders to the floor. “What in creation,” he mutters, and gets another shove for his troubles. He tries to make for the staircase - Maker, he just wants to _lie down_ \- but Hannibal is having none of it, herding him toward Leandra’s wing and making an awful din.

Sure enough, it summons the lady of the house. It is impossible to miss the way her mouth pinches as she looks him over. He can’t be what she wanted for her son - his presence here is a terrible risk, and likely a terrible waste, in her eyes, of their hard-won new station and security. That’s unfair - she has made him nothing but welcome here, has spent her life sheltering mages from the eyes of the Chantry at great and unjust cost.

“Off with that thing,” she says, and snaps her fingers. Oh - she’s looking at his coat.

“Err,” and it’s hard to resist the urge to wrap his arms around himself.

“You’ll catch your death of chokedamp,” and her tone brooks no argument. 

He can think of many, many things he’d rather do than skim down to his undertunic in front of his lover’s mother. “I’ll just…” he gestures toward the stairs.

“Give it here,” she says, a little gentler. “Orana will clean it, won’t you, dear.”

Lovely. More of an audience. Just the thing to make this situation even more horrible. Orana looks seconds away from stepping in to help him out of it, and that thought’s so dreadful he can do nothing but surrender, fumbling with his buckles as quick as he can. He nearly jumps out of his skin when an arm crushes ‘round his nearly-bare shoulders - Hawke, in his silly red monstrosity of a housecoat. A man that big shouldn’t be able to sneak up on anyone. And oh, the kiss he presses to Anders’ temple is thrilling and uncomfortable in equal measure. It still feels wrong, so much affection so openly displayed. He feels exposed. He _is_ exposed - thinning tunic and pants wet and clingy with the rain. It’s impossible not to be conscious of his general dinginess, here, in this place, with these people. Vanity is a waste of time and resources and his clothes are perfectly serviceable.

“Good thing they’re ready!” Hawke near-bellows, uncomfortably close to his ear. Anders is almost grateful for the distraction. Scratch that - Leandra’s gimlet eye is aimed at her son, now, and he’s nothing but grateful for that.

“Is now really the time, dear? Can’t you see he’s all worn out?” Leandra chides, and Maker, does he look as bad as all that? He should not be ashamed. His energy was well-spent - should he have given less? No.

Hawke’s big hand squeezes his shoulder, jarring him out of his thoughts again. “Might as well be warm and dry for supper.” His stomach, traitor that it is, makes audible noise.

“I’ll fix something up right away,” and that’s Orana.

“No need. I can…” he starts, but she speeds away as though she hasn’t heard him. Leandra’s smile is hard to interpret, not that he has much time to try. Hawke’s all but towing him up the stairs, prattling on about some encounter with the Seneschal and he wants to just. Stop. Just a moment. Catch his breath, a moment of quiet, but he chose this, this distraction, this loud full house, insisted on it…

There is a moment, at least, the bedroom door shut securely behind them. Anders closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. Just… a moment. That’s all he needs.

That’s all he’ll get, too. Hawke’s back and grinning at him, a small box in his hands. The weight of his attention is settling. The box… less so.

Still, he hastens to take it when that grin begins to dim a little. “We all worked on them,” and that’s, frankly, worrying. “Well, Orana, mostly, but Mother did the little kitten paws and I had design input.”

That’s VERY worrying. There’s nothing for it now, though. He opens the lid and pulls out…

He manages to suppress his groan, if only just. A housecoat to match Hawke’s. Well, not quite. The back is free of huge insignia, at least, even if there is a little lantern embroidered on the right breast. It’s the pants, though. Maker, the pants. They’re all over embroidery - lanterns and little cat prints, yes, a few tiny embroidered feathers, but across the back, the whole rump area, really, there’s… “Is that… is that a _hawk_ ,” he manages.

Hawke winks at him, which should have prepared him. How, though, how could one be prepared for Hawke, chortling, grabbing a generous handful of ass and stage-whispering “it’s my favorite part.” Anders is a weak man and somehow, _somehow_ that awful line sends a little thrill right through him.

It’s short-lived, though. Maker, the thought of Orana painstaking embroidering… that… thing… The sheer amount of wasted effort…

“Do you like them?” and Andraste’s ample asscheeks, Hawke has the nerve to look earnest about it. “We want you to feel at home,” and that’s…

How. How could anyone feel at home in these unconsciously expensive, frankly hideous… But oh, that they’d thought… That they all wanted him to…

He’s been silent for too long - cue the nervous rambling. “I know, I know, green’s more your sort of thing, but Mother had a fit imagining the two of us clashing so badly.” A nudge of Hawke’s elbow, gentle but jarring all the same. “And I liked the thought of us matching.” That earned look is back, before Hawke’s eyes slide away. “Well. To a point. The enormous Amell crest isn’t quite your style.” An endearingly awkward shrug and, “It’s a little strange for me, even, so I thought, or really, we all thought…”

“I’ll put them on,” and Anders supposes he sounds warm enough. It’s a little silly to slip behind the wardrobe door to do it - Hawke’s seen all he’s got to show, thoroughly and repeatedly, but he needs a moment. Just a moment to stare down at his embroidered legs, to fortify himself against the memories of another life that the slide of silk against his skin stirs up. He chose this, this man, this wastefulness… He’d choose it again, ugly pants and all.

He steps out from behind the door. Hawke whistles, makes a little circle with his finger. Anders turns, can’t help laughing as he does it and just for a moment he feels light and free and much, much younger as he’s snagged into a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I invite you to consider poor Anders next getting dragged down the stairs to endure Leandra and Orana and the dog admiring his awful new pjs. :P
> 
> PS: Some of my thoughts on how Those Awful Pants came to be: Leandra suggested to Hawke that Anders might want something other than an enormous coat to wear around the house and they ended up having a really sweet conversation where Leandra didn't come right out and SAY "listen stop worrying I hate your scruffy apostate boyfriend, believe u me I get it and at least it's not that pantsless pirate, I lowered my expectations long ago." Leandra worked on them a little with Orana, but at that point it was just sort of a couple cute little cat paw prints by the pants cuff, more a little in-joke than anything. Hawke sees Orana working on them one day and gets VERY EXCITED and ends up babbling about all the possible designs, what does she think, will Anders like them and she is sort of bemused and obligingly adds a couple feathers and lanterns up the side-seam. Leandra pops by, sees this, cracks up, and settles down to throw in another couple paw prints, more as an excuse to chat with Orana than anything - it's impossible to resist the urge to mother at all of these little waifs Hawke brings into the house, and this is one of the first times Orana hasn't been visibly freaked out by Leandra's casual chat!
> 
> Little things are embroidered all up the sides, and Leandra thinks that's the end of it. But of course Hawke stumbles across Orana doing the hemming and more or less says, "THAT'S SO GREAT, HOW ABOUT MOAR!!!" and ends up plopping down on a stool and being disgustingly mushy about Anders, asking Orana if she thinks he'll like this or that, and it's more or less the first time that she doesn't think her big, murdery employer is outright terrifying. This whole thing is so far outside her experience at Hadriana's house, from the warmth to the informality to the downright undeniably terribad taste in clothing on display... She'd planned on leaving the butt decorously undecorated, embroidery on legs only, but when Hawke showed up to check and chat and CACKLED and asked her to put an enormous hawk across the ass... By that point, she just giggled along and thought why not, that's hilarious on many levels and it'll be covered by the jacket-tail anyway.
> 
> In conclusion: THIS FAMILY WAS BROUGHT TOGETHER BY THE CREATION OF HIDEOUS TROUSERS, WHY AM I LIKE THIS.

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this got away from me a little bit. I had thought to make this a one-shot, but I think it'll flow better as a chaptered piece, even if each chapter is on the short side. Hope you enjoyed! I'd love to chitchat in the comments with you if you have any thoughts (including friendly criticisms), and catch you soon with the next adventure in badly mishandled gifting,
> 
> I am foisting this on the incomparable HollowLand, without whom I would never have been able to experience Dragon Age. HollowLand assessed, correctly, that I would adore the games but would never learn the really complex mechanisms required to fight and not constantly die in them, and graciously offered to do all the icky battle bits but let me choose all of the dialogue. We got all the way through Dragon Age II (and we're neck-deep in Origins!), and I am ~~obsessed.~~ My gaming experience was prettymuch limited to MarioParty, so I didn't see this feels tsunami coming AT ALL but I have no regets. :P Well, maybe I regret the anxiety nightmares about not being nice enough to Fenris, but somehow or other I'll scrape together the fortitude to survive.
> 
> I debated back and forth on the dedication, here; somehow or other despite my general angsty tendencies as a fan author, all I can muster for the Dragon Age boys is go-to-the-dentist-for-those-cavities level fluff. But it's only fair to recognize the reason for the season even if I am now that dreadfully embarrassing fandom friend. :P


End file.
